Themes in poetry make
patterns on my skin
etched into the living, they’re not just
fumbles from the lips but
moments
little collections of sins and successes
but I don’t believe in sin
Themes in poetry, they’re wrinkles and scars, like
broken down cars on the side of the highway
waiting to be picked up
like Bryan and I in Hawaii
drunk driving
to the middle of the island
in a $500 red Honda named Roxy and
when she broke down, we left her there and
hitched a ride back into town
If I believed in sin, I’d say maybe that was one
It’s valentines day and
I’m sick as a dog
laying in bed
letting words scorch my skin like
water from last night’s shower
thinking of all the men idling in their
corners of life that were once in mine
laying between
pseudo-clean sheets after
dressing me in concert tickets and comedy while
I falter in the name of non-monogamy
But I don’t know what the fuck I’m talking about
It’s valentines day
and I’ve wanted this quiet for a while
but didn’t ask for the head ache or
the perpetual back pain, curling neck over
leftover Japanese yam for dinner and
the little hairs and
pieces of skin of past lovers
Hopefully the themes in poetry will change
I wouldn’t want to be like Taylor Swift
writing the same sad love song over and over again
but I guess I’d do it for a private jet or a
football boyfriend
For now
broken record that didn’t win ten grammy’s or the hearts
of screaming girls who make out with
posters of celebrities
for practice
just me
sensitive to the touch of
my own poetry
dreaming of Roxy,
the forgotten $500 red Honda
I hope someone found her in the impound lot on
Valentines Day
I never liked holidays much